


Holiday Cheer

by ladyspock7



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Although His Methods Are Questionable, Christmas Party, Don't copy to another site, Drinking Games, Everybody drinks too much in Gotham, Harvey Tries to be a Good Bro, Jim Seriously needs to work on Communication Skills, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Possible Eventual Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-09 14:24:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17408561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyspock7/pseuds/ladyspock7
Summary: After Oswald's assistance against the latest threat to Gotham, Jim invites Oswald to the GCPD Christmas party. Featuring Jim trying to do right, Harvey being a wingman, and Oswald suspicious of everyone.A very belated entry for Gobblepot Winter 2018, the New Year's Resolution prompt.





	Holiday Cheer

Oswald arrived at O'Malley's Tavern at the appointed time for the GCPD Christmas party just as James had requested, flanked by his six most well-behaved goons, and the noise level in the room dropped as every cop in the place turned their heads.

No one actually went for their guns, but Oswald could sense the strain in the air. He gifted the fine officers of the GCPD with a benign smile as he searched the sea of faces for the one face he wanted to see. Jim invited him, after all.

Then Harvey Bullock, of all people, lumbered out of the crowd and boomed, “Glad you could make it, Cobblepot.”

Oswald's eye twitched. As usual, Harvey was too loud, overbearing, and the man's dislike of Oswald was practically a physical sensation, but Harvey stuck out his hand, as much a challenge as a greeting.

Oswald gave himself a mental shrug. He could make nice when the situation warranted, and so he seized the profferred hand. “Happy to be here, Detective.”

They locked gazes. Oswald half expected Harvey to try to crush his hand in a boorish show of dominance, but to his mild surprise, Harvey didn't. Merely shook once, firmly, and released him.

A collective sigh passed through the room as people turned back to their drinks. Conversations resumed.

Oswald's goons relaxed and casually took up stations nearby, especially focussing on the path to the nearest exit. Oswald took over a stool at the end of the suddenly deserted bar counter, his top bodyguard Deke settling into a chair at a discrete distance.

The bartender turned on the stereo system, and Celtic music blared out of the loudspeakers around the room.

Oswald gritted his teeth. Well, at least there weren't any bagpipes yet but if they started playing “Danny Boy” he might have to leave.

And, at last, Jim came out of the restroom, having missed the whole damn thing. His eyes found Oswald across the crowded room immediately and he nodded at him.

Oswald's heart gave a little flip but he schooled his features into nonchalance and he nodded back in greeting. Jim was hemmed in by the mass of police officers who had migrated to the back end of the tavern.

Oswald's side of the place was almost empty, which suited him just fine as he didn't particularly care to be surrounded by inebriated cops.

Jim edged through the throng, mouthing endless 'excuse me's', no doubt.

Oswald suppressed a smile. Crowds always parted for Oswald, he never had to say 'excuse me' to every lackey, though Jim would no doubt object to comparing fine hardworking police officers to Oswald's underlings.

Oswald made a note to mention it, if only to see that adorable scowl of annoyance on Jim's face. He needed to have _some_ fun, and needling Jim was easy entertainment. It was a party, after all.

An extremely drunk officer stumbled into Jim's path, gesturing excitedly, but Oswald couldn't hear what he had to say that was so important, as the music was too loud.

The bartender set a pint of pale beer in front of him. “On the house,” the man said. “But there's a two-drink limit.”

Oswald smiled thinly. “Of course there is.” The GCPD bean-counters in action again, unable to loosen the purse strings even now, after all the upheaval and sacrifice of its officers. If Oswald ever tried to skimp on his underlings this way he'd soon have riots.

To pass the time, Oswald ran his gaze over the decor of O'Malley's Tavern, appraising the wood-paneled walls and touches of Old World charm, including the wooden sign from the original establishment in Ireland, which had burned down. Scorch marks were visible on the sign's lower right hand corner.

The tavern was bedecked in the trappings of the Christmas season, garlands and colored lights strung along the tops of the walls, and wreaths over every window and door, as the Iceberg Lounge was decorated.

Though he himself didn't celebrate Christmas it was expected by the clientele, and so every year he ordered festive decor to be displayed, though on a more modest, more tasteful scale. He went to the bother of procuring garlands of fir or cedar, despite the expense and the needles that inevitably dropped on the carpet as they slowly withered. They gave off such a pleasant scent, and were far better than the tackier plastic greenery most establishments used year after year.

Such as this tavern. A policemen's bar, usually avoided by such as himself. He had his territory, the cops had theirs, and normally he wouldn't traipse in here unless on official business. But because of the recent threat against the city-- an unusually aggressive faction of a Chicago gang trying to muscle its way into Gotham-- and because the Penguin had once again been compelled to intervene, Jim had invited him to a sort of ad hoc celebratory Christmas party hosted by the GCPD.

And, in an act of temporary insanity, Oswald accepted.

What in the world ever possessed him? Was it the look in Jim's eye, the warm touch of Jim's hand on his forearm? As if he actually wanted Oswald to be there. And so, here he was, cooling his heels and waiting for Jim to pay attention to him.

He checked on Jim's progress.

Jim hadn't made any leeway through the crowd at all, and was still engaged in conversation with the drunken officer who was gesticulating wildly.

Oswald tapped his fingers on the cold glass and shifted his weight, his mild amusement at Jim's discomfort evaporating. Six minutes, and it already felt like he'd been here too long. Thirty minutes, maybe forty-five total, that should be long enough for the sake of politeness, then he'd take his leave.

For God's sake, how long before Jim extracted himself and came to greet him? Jim was the only reason he bothered coming to this shabby party and the man didn't even have the courtesy to...

He shook his head, irritated at himself. So Jim had gotten waylaid, what of it? Oswald ought to be a little more understanding.

Except Oswald was always tasked with being understanding. Always having to make the effort, to offer the deals, to extend help, help that was grudgingly accepted, if at all. Jim never even came to ask for information anymore.

It was the damnable hope that continued to spring in his heart whenever Jim payed him even the slightest bit of attention. Though Oswald would settle for the man's anger, and usually did, something within always softened whenever Jim dropped him a few crumbs.

He was such an idiot. Maybe he should just go, politeness be damned. Not that Jim would even notice, he thought sourly. He looked around the room, taking note of those officers secretly on his payroll, who were studiously, and properly, ignoring him, and caught sight of Jim going out the back door.

He realized his mouth was hanging open and closed it. Feeling heat shoot through his cheeks, he held onto the edge of the bar with his gloved hands and struggled to compose himself.

Jim left. He just...left, without even talking to him. How rude. How insulting! The sheer audacity, the unmitigated...

Oswald didn't even have words. To be dismissed so casually. Who the fuck did Jim think he was dealing with, was the Penguin some nobody? Why did Jim even invite him?

Some sop to Jim's conscience, after all, apparently, a meaningless show of goodwill that meant nothing, a crumb tossed in Oswald's path, and goddam it all, Oswald snapped it up greedily enough, hadn't he, so pleased that Jim had thought to actually include him in something, even this pathetic excuse of a party.

To his alarm, Oswald felt tears prick at his eyes. He took care to dab at the corners of his eyes swiftly so no one would notice.

Damn it, when would it stop hurting? If only he could dismiss Jim from his thoughts as easily as Jim, apparently, could dismiss Oswald.

A heavy hand landed on his shoulder and he started, whirling to see the red, grinning face of Harvey Bullock, exuding cheer and alcohol fumes in equal measure. “The man of the hour. How's it hangin'?"

Oswald's lip curled. He was in no mood to bandy words with the likes of Bullock. He wanted to get out of there, get back home, and crawl into a bottle of his most expensive scotch as soon as humanly possible. “Lovely party,” he said, sliding off the stool and straightening his silk jacket. “Clearly the GCPD has spared no expense. Now if you'll excuse me...”

He nodded at the bodyguards, who stood and walked over to him. Deke picked up Oswald's coat and held it open so Oswald could slip his arms into the sleeves.

“It barely got started,” Harvey said, frowning. “What's the rush?”

Oswald buttoned up. “I've partaken of enough holiday cheer, at least as much as the GCPD can afford.”

“You sayin' we're cheap?”

“Why no, not at all. Open bar, very generous. As long as all one wants is weak beer and stays under the limit.” He adjusted his gloves and collected his cane. “I bid you good evening, detective. Give my regards...”

He stopped, voice faltering. He'd been about to say 'Give my regards to Jim' but a lump got in the way. He coughed to cover his discomfort and tucked his scarf under his chin.

“Don't be like that,” Harvey said. “Stick around a little while.”

“Thank you, but no.” Oswald buttoned his coat, irritation spiking at Harvey's supposed concern.

“Come on, it's the holidays,” Harvey said, seizing his shoulder. “How 'bout you...”

Oswald spun, gripping his cane, half a breath away from drawing his knife on this buffoon. Through the red tide flooding his vision, he maintained enough sense of self-preservation to keep the knife sheathed in a roomful of cops. Barely.

Because he'd had it. Had enough of Bullock manhandling him, of getting snubbed by Jim. If Bullock touched him one more time...

His goons loomed, ready to intervene. The knowledge that they'd fling Bullock into the wall on Oswald's word calmed him a bit.

Harvey took a step back, holding up his hands. “Whoa, take it easy!”

“I will not, when you obviously are trying to keep me from leaving.”

Harvey licked his lips and his eyes darted to the side, chagrin souring his features.

_Because I'm right_ , Oswald thought with a grim, weary satisfaction. _Of course. Always a catch, always a set-up, it never failed._

“I am going,” Oswald said, voice as cold as he could make it, and turned on his heel.

“All right, fine, be that way,” Bullock snapped. “Don't know why the fuck he even bothers, just went to get your present.”

That was a bizarre enough statement to give Oswald pause in his act of sweeping out of the room.

He regarded the detective with a critical eye. The man certainly wasn't above using subterfuge to temporarily gain trust, but he was also crude and unsubtle, and Oswald knew his body language well enough to know he probably wasn't making something up on the fly. Harvey side-eyed him, hunched over the bar, without any of his usual blustering dominance.

“Jim went to fetch me a present,” Oswald repeated in a flat voice. “What would that be? A straightjacket? Special monogrammed handcuffs?”

Bullock snorted. “You think we lured you here to take you down? What's keepin' us from going to your place with a warrant?”

“My private army.”

Bullock tightened his lips into a thin line as this home truth about the limitations of the GCPD struck him amidships. “Look, Jim ran out to his car, he sent me a text, wanted me to keep you company 'til he got back.”

Harvey's cell phone buzzed, and he plucked it out of his pocket, and tsk-ed at the message. “Great. Now he says he forgot it at home. You know what, Cobblepot? Stay or go, I don't give a shit.”

Oswald adjusted his grip on his cane and ran a narrow-eyed gaze around the tavern again. It certainly didn't look like the other cops were making any covert maneuvers to surround him, although a few people had looked around at the disturbance when Oswald shoved Harvey's hand away. But there was no real tension in the air as might be expected from people about to spring a trap, and he had a nose for that sort of thing.

Still, he hadn't survived this long by being a fucking idiot (And it only took being stabbed in the back about a hundred and fifty times, he thought wryly), so he ordered his thugs to keep the path to the exit clear, and settled at a table with his back to the wall.

Harvey took over Oswald's vacated stool at the end of the bar. "Take your coat off and stay a while."

“No need to keep an eye on me, I assure you,” Oswald said, unbuttoning his coat and removing the scarf to relieve some of the heat. He kept the coat on, however. “Sheer morbid curiosity compels me to delay my departure, if nothing else. Unless the good captain has given you orders...?” The question hung in the air.

“You got a mind like a corkscrew.” Harvey shook his head. “I told you, he'll be right back. Prolly like twenty-five, thirty minutes. Just have a drink or something. Fucking relax.”

He poured a shot out of a whiskey bottle sitting at his elbow, and walked it over to Oswald's table, setting it down with a clunk.

Oswald leaned away from it ever so slightly. “I am overwhelmed by your generosity.”

“You too good for Wild Turkey?”

“I'm more concerned with how many people might have taken swigs straight from that bottle. I'm fairly certain it's been sitting there since before my arrival.”

“It's booze. It's sort of...” Harvey waved a hand in a circle. “Self-sterilizing. Geoffery bought it, said anybody could have some.”

“Could be more saliva than whiskey by now,” Oswald said.

Harvey, who had been about to knock back his own shot, paused and glared at the glass. “God damn it, Penguin,” he said petulantly. “Now you got me thinkin' about it.”

Harvey's whining amused Oswald and he graciously ordered another bottle of Wild Turkey. The bartender poured shots for both of them.

He picked up the shot glass simply for something to do, but soon set it down again. What sort of present could Jim possibly be giving him? And why? Was guilt spurring Jim to make some kind of gesture?

Curiosity had kept him here, but it was quickly turning into indignation. And something like dread caused a lump to settle in his chest. He could handle the man's rages, indeed, it kept him warm on cold nights, but this supposed act of kindness was throwing him off balance. 

Well, he probably shouldn't get too excited. It was probably a mass-produced wooden plaque with 'Thank You for Your Service' printed on it in brass.

Oswald felt eyes on him and realized that Harvey was watching him fidget. He forced his hands into stillness on the head of his cane.

“You're not drinking?” Harvey said.

Oswald made a noncomittal humming sound that could mean anything.

Harvey said, "Yeah, I guess you gotta watch how much you take in, little guy like you.”

Oswald stiffened. “I beg your pardon."

Harvey grinned wide, smug bastard. “Two drinks max, I'm thinking, enough to get you soused.”

Oswald let out an incredulous chuckle. “I can drink you under the table any day.”

“Ha! Whaddya weigh, one forty, one forty-five?”

“My weight is no business of yours.”

Harvey patted his own bulging stomach with pride. “I got lots more room here. More'n you.”

Oswald raised an eyebrow. He wasn't sure, later, what possessed him in that moment. Perhaps because he was tired of waiting around for Jim, he was planning on getting seriously drunk at some point anyway, and Bullock pissed him off.

Placing his cane across his knees, he leaned forward and laced his fingers together, giving Bullock a smile with razors in it. “Willing to put your money where your mouth is?”

“What?” Harvey's brow wrinkled. “You serious?” He shook his head. “You're gonna regret it, Penguin.” He stood up, sticking his thumbs in his belt. “Twenty bucks says I can drink more shots than you. Whiskey.”

Oswald adopted a look of fake concern. “Oh, but I wouldn't want to leave you destitute. Make it ten.”

Bullock's lip curled. “Fifty. Unless you wanna back out.”

Oswald spread his hands in a magnanimous gesture. “I'm ready when you are. Let's begin. But not this rotgut. Barkeep!" Imperiously he raised his hand. "What's top shelf in this rathole?"

 - - - - -

Harvey excused himself for a run to the bathroom, where he typed out a quick text. _Hurry the fuck up, Romeo._

_I am hurrying! Road icy._

_He almost left. Why'd you sneak out? Should've said hi._

_I didn't sneak out, too many people in the way and I had to go get the stuff._

_Just get back._

_You tell him anything?_

Harvey rolled his eyes. Why Jim was so taken with Oswald he would never understand, but Harvey was nothing if not a good wingman. Besides, if they hit it off, maybe Jim could rein in the little bastard once in a while. _I HAD to, stupid, or he would've took off._

_Fuck. Okay. Can you keep him company?_

_No problem. Soften him up for ya._

_The hell does that mean?_

Harvey grinned wolfishly, could almost feel Jim's suspicious bewilderment through the phone. _Don't worry, buddy, I got it covered._ He put the phone away before Jim could start nagging at him and went out to drink Cobblepot under the table.

 


End file.
